Mother for Dinner

by Shalom Auslander

  Seventh, the middle child, was trapped both chronologically and emotionally between both Mudds—between the cruelly domineering and the pathetically controlling—and it was this, Dr. Isaacson suggested, that was at the root of his ambivalence. If Sixth hadn’t died, Seventh’s sense of guilt would have been less severe; Mudd would likely have remained mean instead of pitiful, and Seventh would have been able to walk away from her more easily. Perhaps then he would have known happiness. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have called her when she started eating Whoppers. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have answered the phone when she called.

  Perhaps then he wouldn’t be in this cab now, heading to Brooklyn to see her.

  Is it love that binds a family together, Seventh wondered, or just the guilt estrangement would cause? BD or AD, the Seltzers had always been a fractious family, and as the taxi rumbled across the ancient Brooklyn Bridge, Seventh grew increasingly anxious about seeing them all again. What would they talk about? Most families talked about the good old days, but the Seltzers had no good old days; there were only bad old days, and worse old days, and many days young Seventh wished he had the courage to run away and never see his family again. Some days the depression overwhelmed him, and he would cry to his mother, wondering why they couldn’t just be a happy family like everyone else. He hoped she would hug him, say she was sorry, and assure him she would try harder to be the family he needed.

  It’s First’s fault, Mudd said. That little bastard’s impossible.

  First, being first, was the canvas upon which Mudd projected all her hopes and dreams, for her family and for their people, and he was thus the victim of the worst of her tyranny.

  She wanted him to become their people’s leader, their statesman, their chief. First just wanted to play with Malika, the little girl down the street.

  She’s black, said Mudd.

  So? asked First.

  You’ll do anything to hurt me, said Mudd.

  She scolded him and rebuked him, slapped him when he disappointed her and slapped him harder when he disappointed his people. And so First grew to despise Mudd, and he rejected her, and he rejected their people. He left home at eighteen, and never spoke to anyone in the family again.

  Second, who idolized his older brother, watched the violence from the top of the stairs, peering through the prison-bar posts of the handrail and wishing he had the courage to go to his brother’s defense. But he did not. Instead, he consoled First afterward, hugged him when he cried, brought him tissues when Mudd bloodied his nose, and grew to hate his mother as much as First did. At eighteen, Second followed in his older brother’s footsteps, which led straight out the front door, and he too never spoke to Mudd or anyone else in the family again.

  Mudd went no easier on Third than she did on First and Second, but Third was physically enormous, a giant from birth, larger even than she was. She struck him, as she did the others, but due to his size, the physical abuse had little effect, on him or on their relationship. Third’s body had always been that of a man, but his mind remained developmentally that of a child, and like a child, he could never be angry with his mother, for a mother could do no wrong. Because of his size, Mudd decided early on that Third would be the warrior of their tribe, the defender of their people who would lead them to freedom. But Third was no fighter. He was no conqueror. He was too simple to be angry, even when he should have been, and he never raised a hand to anyone, even when he should have leveled them. He never left Mudd’s house, and to this day, despite being in his midthirties, he still lived with his mother in the Brooklyn home in which he was born.

  Fourth, born two years later, was the opposite of Third in every way. He was slight, the smallest of the four, pale, sickly, scrawny, and utterly brilliant. Fourth was the smartest Cannibal anyone could ever recall being born in the New World or even the Old Country.

  He’s off the charts, said the school administrator as he handed her Fourth’s intelligence assessment.

  My God. Mudd beamed at the paper in her hand. If he lied and cheated he could be a Jew.

  Fourth read by the time he was two, did long division by the time he was three, and questioned Mudd’s every word by the time he was four. He couldn’t throw a football, he couldn’t run ten feet without tripping, and he couldn’t stay silent in the face of her ignorance.

  When we consume the bodies of our beloveds, Mudd told her children, our love carries their nutrients into our cells, and so they live on, within us, forever.

  Mitochondria carry nutrients into our cells, said Fourth, not love.

  Mudd clopped him on the head with the back of her hand.

  Stop being stupid, she said.

  Knowledge was Fourth’s rebellion, intelligence his weapon. First and Second fought Mudd with shouts and violence; Fourth quietly read Goethe, knowing how much Mudd hated when Cannibals read the books of other peoples. She would have preferred shouts and violence.

  Go-thee? she demanded. What the hell kind of name is Go-thee?

  It’s pronounced Ger-ta, he said. He was a German writer and a statesman, a scientist and a dramatist. His first novel was so affecting that many Germans who read it took their own lives.

  Well, said Mudd with a shrug. Anyone who can make a bunch of Krauts kill themselves can’t be all bad.

  Fourth rebelliously read the Irish, insolently studied the Russians, brazenly surveyed the Chinese, and truculently investigated the French; then he taught himself the languages and defiantly reread them a second time in the original. All these provocations Mudd stoically bore, but when he entered college at the age of sixteen and announced his intention to study anthropology, she’d had it.

  Maybe you should worry a little less about mankind, she said, and a little more about your kind.

  Mankind is my kind, he said.

  Mudd scoffed.

  And you’re the smart one? she asked.

  They were the last words she ever spoke to him.

  Fifth was six years old when Sixth died, and he blamed himself for his younger brother’s death.

  I should have checked on him, he reproached himself. I should have brought him medicine; I should have called an ambulance.

  Mudd held him.

  We all make mistakes, she said to him. Not as big as yours, but we make them.

  Fifth would have hated Mudd as much as the others did had he not been so busy hating himself. He couldn’t forgive himself, and the cancer of his guilt spread to every other area of his life. He felt guilty for eating too much and he felt guilty for eating too little; he felt guilty for not cleaning his bedroom, and then when he did clean his bedroom, he felt guilty for how slovenly his clean bedroom made his brothers look in comparison; when he got a B, he felt guilty for not getting an A, when he got an A, he felt guilty for not getting an A+, and when he got an A+, he felt guilty for ruining the grading curve for everyone else. He saw himself as a failure—both as a son and as a Cannibal.

  I’m sorry, Mudd, he would say, twice a day, if not more, every day of his youth. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he went on to become a psychiatrist, which Mudd interpreted, as she did most things her children did, as an attack on her.

  Professional mother blamers, that’s all you shrinks are, she said to him at his medical school graduation.

  I’m sorry, said Fifth.

  Sixth, said Mudd, was perfect in every way. He never cried, not when he was hungry, not when he was tired, not even when he was born.

  He came out, she said, with a smile on his face. Doctors, they’d never seen anything like it. My angel.

  First, who had been waiting just outside the delivery room at the time, remembered it differently.

  I heard crying, he scoffed when she told the story, which she did often.

  Well it wasn’t Sixth, Mudd said. He never cried, not once.

  Must’ve been the doctor, First whispered to Second. When he saw h
er fat cooch.

  Mudd smacked them both.

  Stop being stupid, she said.

  Seventh was just four years old when Sixth died, and Mudd, traumatized and wracked with grief, threw her full attention into protecting Seventh and keeping him from harm, afraid that he might die too. She made him sleep in her bed, beside a large, gilt-framed photo of Sixth—Father, by then, had already taken to sleeping in the den—so that she could keep an eye on him.

  Don’t you die on me, she said to Seventh. Don’t you hurt me.

  I won’t, he promised.

  Young Seventh made his mother’s happiness his life’s mission. She became his needy child, and he, her doting parent, did all he could to please her. When his brothers fought, Seventh made peace. When they cursed Mudd, Seventh defended her. His own wants and needs, meanwhile, were measured by the degree of hurt or pleasure their fulfillment might cause her: he ate dinner when he wasn’t hungry so she wouldn’t feel her work was for naught, he excelled at school so as not to disappoint her, and when he fell sick, he told her it was nothing, not to worry, then went and suffered silently in his bed, coughing into his pillow so as not to remind her of the terrible coughing of Sixth the night he passed away.

  Eighth, the first of the AD children, followed the lead of Seventh and also made Mudd’s happiness his mission. But Eighth was a child of severely limited competencies—neither as defiant as First, nor as determined as Second, nor as strong as Third, nor as smart as Fourth, nor as sensitive as Fifth, nor as selfless as Seventh—and so, utterly lacking in any discernible skills, talents, or competencies, Eighth became a clergyman. He modeled himself after his beloved uncle Ishmael—their father’s brother, known by all as Unclish, the spiritual leader of the entire Cannibal-American community. While his brothers wasted their days learning the rules of Monopoly and Dungeons & Dragons, Eighth studied their people’s ancient rules of Consumption, the myriad stipulations of the traditional Victuals, the history of their people, the benefits of charcoal versus propane, and how to set up a two-zone grill. He memorized whole sections of The Guide—the codification of all their laws and traditions, codified by Unclish himself—and repeated them by heart to Mudd, who swelled with pride.

  Through you, she said to Eighth, our unique cultural heritage will be passed on.

  Ninth was a child of incomparable sensitivity to the world around him, with a love of nature and a near mystical connection to her many creatures. The most vicious dog would cuddle at his feet, the most aloof cat would leap into his arms. It was as if they knew they could trust him, that they sensed within him a spiritual being like none other. But Mudd cared not a whit about any of that. She cared only that Ninth was gay, an identity that revealed itself early in his life. His friends were all girls, and he never showed much interest in sports. Mudd scowled with contempt as she watched young Ninth brush his Barbie doll’s hair.

  He’s just having fun, Seventh said.

  It isn’t natural, she grumbled.

  Mudd didn’t have any particular concern for the norms of nature; her only concern was for her people, and Ninth’s nascent sexual orientation meant that he would never reproduce, and thus never contribute to their people’s dwindling numbers. Ninth sensed his mother’s disapproval, and struggled to hide his feelings as best he could. But on the eve of his fourteenth birthday, he decided he could lie to her, and himself, no more.

  Mudd, he announced, I’m gay.

  Today I shall mourn a second son, she sobbed, and all the sons he might have given us.

  She felt cheated, and she felt betrayed, and so she blamed the Jews.

  The Sherwoods in Hollywood, she shouted at Ninth, that’s who’s got you all confused! With their vile TV shows and movies, men dressing up like women, women dressing up like men. Animals! You think they want us to reproduce? You think they want us to survive? Nothing would make them happier than to turn us into a nation of queers, Ninth. They want us to be sick—and you, you’re Patient Speedo.

  You can berate me all you want, Mudd, Ninth said. It isn’t going to make me like girls.

  Oh, honey, she said sweetly, thinking perhaps this had all been a terrible misunderstanding. I don’t care who you like. I only care who you have sex with.

  Ninth never believed for a moment that Mudd’s concern was for reproduction, and claimed she was a casualty herself—of homophobia, of hatred, of narrow-mindedness. They fought day and night until he was old enough to leave.

  I don’t hate you, Mudd, he said. I just pity you.

  Well I hate you, she said, and slammed the door behind him.

  Tenth, listening to Mudd’s jeremiads about Ninth’s selfish destruction of their people, was inspired to come to their defense, to become the warrior Third wasn’t, to devote his life to protecting his people from the countless enemies whose names Mudd daily cursed. He bought karate magazines to learn how to fight, dumbbells to put on muscle, headbands to look like Rambo.

  They won’t be expecting it, he said when Seventh discovered him hiding steak knives around the house: under the couch, behind his headboard, on top of the bookshelf in the living room.

  They who? Seventh asked.

  They everyone, said Tenth.

  Eleventh and Twelfth were twins, and Mudd celebrated their miraculous births, saying the Ancient Spirits had made amends for Sixth’s death by blessing her with two sons for the price of one.

  From one birth came two sons, she sang with joy, and from these two sons will come many more.

  But that wasn’t the way it turned out. Before the twins were out of elementary school, they were already suffering the devastating psychological agony of gender dysphoria. They had been born in the wrong bodies, there was no doubt about it, female spirits trapped in male forms, and they longed for release from the prison of their physical selves. Something had gone wrong at the factory; God had accidentally installed the complex engine of a Ferrari into the frame of a clunky Jeep, and there was nobody in Customer Service who could help. And so they took it upon themselves to become the people they knew they were: they began dressing like girls, growing their hair long, wearing makeup, and saving every penny they could, dreaming of the day they would be able to afford the surgery that could make them the women they were meant to be.

  Don’t be ridiculous! Mudd said when they wept and begged her not to throw out their dresses and shoes. You can’t just decide to be something new. Can a tree just decide to be a bird? Can a bird decide to be a tree? The tree has leaves, the bird has feathers, no matter how much the tree wants feathers and the bird wants leaves.

  We’re not trees, said Eleventh.

  That’s what the tree said, Mudd replied.

  Tenth, defender of his people, mocked his twin brothers—Sisters, they demanded, but he didn’t care—pulling on their braids and calling them sissies who were destroying their people, but this only strengthened their resolve, and Eleventh and Twelfth grew to hate the mother who denied their pain, and Tenth, who abused them, and Eighth, who told them, again and again, that it was forbidden for them to change who they were.

  Says who? asked Eleventh.

  Yeah, said Twelfth. Says who?

  Says the Elders, said Eighth.

  And how many of those Elders, Eleventh asked, are men I wonder?

  And how many, Twelfth asked, are LGBTQ?

  LG what? Eighth asked.

  Exactly, said Twelfth.

  And then there was Zero. Zero loved her family with all her heart and all her soul. She forgave their shortcomings, met their disdain with smiles, and responded to their bitterness with love. But Zero was of no use to the Cannibal community, reproductively speaking, and so Mudd ignored her. When she was a baby, it was left to Seventh to care for her, to feed her, to change her, to go to her at night when she cried out in fear. Mudd didn’t see the point of teaching Zero their rules and traditions, and so Zero grew up more American
than Cannibal, more New World than Old. But no matter how much Mudd rejected Zero, Zero loved her, and no matter how much Tenth ignored her because she wasn’t male, she loved him too, and no matter how much Eighth refused to answer her questions about their history and tradition because she was just a girl, she loved him too. Her equanimity drove them insane, and Mudd was certain there was something wrong with her, beyond her useless gender. One morning, Seventh came into the living room to find Mudd at the front window. Zero, still just a little girl, was outside in the pouring rain, jumping up and down in the sidewalk puddles and standing with her arms outstretched, her bright smiling face turned up to the heavens, laughing with boundless joy. Seventh smiled to see her, her bright face lighting up the gray day, her joy a rebuke to the clouds themselves, which, seeing her below, soon lightened and cleared and set the sun to shining upon her.

  Mudd sighed and shook her head.

  It’s bad enough she’s a goddamned girl, she said as she turned away from the window with disgust. Did she also have to be a fucking retard?

  * * *

  • • •

  Asked the Elders: May a girl become a boy?

  Yes, said the Elder Elders.

  May a boy become a girl? asked the Elders.

  No, said the Elder Elders.

  But why may a girl become a boy but a boy not become a girl? asked the Elders.

  Because one may not go from something, said the Elder Elders, to nothing.

  * * *

  • • •

  Seventh had moved away, said Dr. Isaacson, but he had never moved on. Seventh agreed, but felt that Dr. Isaacson couldn’t possibly understand the burden placed upon him by his unique cultural heritage.

  Dr. Isaacson sighed.

  Not the headhunter thing again, he said.

  Cannibal, Seventh corrected him. Cannibal-American, actually.

  There are no cannibals in Brooklyn, Seventh.

  Not anymore.

  Where did they go? Dr. Isaacson asked. Gilligan’s Island?